


A Disordered Detective

by allthemchickens



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (BBC Radio)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock - Freeform, TJLC, sherlock bbc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 12:36:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12726726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthemchickens/pseuds/allthemchickens





	1. Tea and Tetris

Sherlock lay on the sofa looking up at the ceiling. After being banned from 'every crime scene on the face of the earth', as put in the dramatic words of detective Lestrade, his world had become a dark patch of boredom.

Yes, he found himself on this couch often with a sense of leading a purposeless life, but after this particularly difficult blow, he found no way of coping.

It ached him physically, chewing at his heart and stomach.

He rolled his eyes, proceeding to drop his hands from a confident steepled position at his soft mouth to an unsure, thrown overboard position as one hand landed to his side and the other dropped off the couch completely, as it was now dangling right above the floor. Sherlock tilted his head from his resting position to look at the one thing that could medicate him-the sunny face of John Watson.

He let his eyes fill with the glorious sight of his husband and his ears magnify the sound of Johns laptop keys clicking under the fingers of the now retired doctor.  
It was almost calming as the sound entered his ears and floated in his head.

Around one of these fingers was a ring, he was sure of it. He was the one who had placed it there. After not being able to see the ring from where he was positioned across the room, he protectively lifted his dangling hand from its position in unfamiliar territory, sitting in the air above the floor of 221B. He placed it on his chest hugging the hand with his own wedding band on it. Sometimes he could never be too sure.

The clicking of the keyboard had a different sounding pattern to it.

'I thought you said you were writing something.'

John glanced up and back at his screen in an instant.

A pair of glasses sat on his face. They hadn't been a necessary piece of equipment when they met 23 years ago, but Sherlock had grown accustomed to seeing the glasses while John participated in any activities that required him to look at a screen or read anything he deemed worth reading. John still thought stars and planets were worth his time.

'I am.'

'Cheeky liar.'

'Don't you hear the sounds of the keyboard?'

John paused his game and changed his body language resting his chin and right side of his face in the palm of his hand leaning forward to look at Sherlock.

'John, this whole time your left hand had been lying dead on the table. You mean to tell me you type with one hand?'

Sherlock smiled a half smile to match Johns half smile which was really a full smile hidden behind an aged hand attached to an arm enwrapped with a well loved brown jumper.

Sherlock's heart did one single faster and slightly stronger beat against his chest like a drummer hitting a drum one time for his entire performance. He had finally caught a glimpse of Johns wedding ring staring back at him. It was something he might never get used to seeing.

The staring contest ended quickly as John moved his hands to turn his laptop around towards Sherlock, revealing a game of Tetris.

'Got me.' He said, face going slightly red.

'Got you.' The detective echoed back sweetly.

It was past noon and John wasn't an idiot. He could see Sherlock's pajamas under his lengthy housecoat. He knew he had been up to nothing all day.

Ever since Sherlocks forced withdrawal from crime scenes and overall recent dissociation with life in general, John had been attempting to get Sherlock to try doing things. Anything.

He found one more tiny opportunity to do so in this moment and grabbed it.

'Sherlock, I'm going to boil some tea water now. Did you want to try your luck?' He said, gesturing to the laptop.

Sherlock looked over questioningly.

'Try my luck? I hardly think Tetris is a game of luck.'

John ignored his partners remarks.

'See if you can beat my high score.'

He was now walking across the room to a Sherlock who was starting to slowly move his thin body into a seated position.

It took effort.

When the game found its way to Sherlock's lap the device was already slightly warm.

As John walked off towards the kitchen, Sherlock began his first game of Tetris in ages.

After a couple of minutes and a couple of rounds, Sherlock called out to the kitchen.

'Is this it?'

'Is this what?' John was still in the kitchen and his voice just made it back to where Sherlock and the game sat.

'Is this all there is to life? Tetris and tea I mean.'

John made his way to the doorway. The two men faced each other.

'You know I've asked myself the same question and the answer is yes, as far as I'm concerned.'

And he really was concerned with the questions coming out of the tall mans mouth.

'Yes, what?'

'Yes, Tetris and tea is all there is to life.'

John seemed perfectly at peace with this statement he had just conjured from his own mind a spat to the floor for all to see. Sherlock was not.

The overwhelming feeling of what Sherlock thought was pure boredom came back full force and continued eroding his organs as the laptop which was now hot from use heated his legs.

'Tea is ready.'

Sherlock looked down at the screen.

The game was lost and Sherlock was the loser.


	2. Open Window

It was dark in the room as cool night air filled the shared bedroom of Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson courtesy of an open window.

Sherlock lay asleep on his stiff wood like back. His torso and chest moved agreeing with every breath.

One of his long legs had made its way in between Johns two outstretched legs which John didn't mind one bit. He too lay on his back focusing on his rising and falling chest as he tried with every breath to fall back into sleep until morning when it would be time to meet his lover again.

John was never a good sleeper. In his younger days, every night brought him back to the war. These days, war was still a plot of some of his dreams but was not an every night affair. He was non the less gifted with a consuming fear of the night.

John went into the war with few friends, came out of the war with fewer and by now had no one from the war with whom he considered a friend he could confide in.

The veteran looked to his left to where his best friend lay. Still breathing.

Though it was dark and no one was there to witness it John couldn't help but smile.

The smile was quick and tired but not forced. When it was over he returned to focusing on his own breathing, although he felt Sherlock's breaths were slightly more meaningful and deserved an audience. Watson returned his gaze to the ceiling that was hidden from him behind darkness.

It had been the price of serving in the war that had pulled him from sleep, but it was the psychological war he determined must be invading Sherlock's mind that kept him up.

What was all that talk questioning what there is to life?

Is he not feeling fulfilled?

Is our relationship boring him?

Johns questioning of his own role in Sherlock's misery brought himself to deep waters. He was sure Sherlock was happy with him but couldn't help being concerned that his partner had recently been wearing a deep shade of sadness that was becoming visible and showed no sign of being shaken off anytime soon.

John had always known Sherlock lacked a certain ability to see life through truly optimistic lenses. They shared some bloody wonderful years together but now a wave was coming to retrieve Sherlock back to the dark, where John had found him, and his fear was-the sea that sent this wave was too strong to be fought against.

He wasn't sure if he should talk to Sherlock in the morning about his concern for his mental health. Any talk of emotion or sign of concern might prematurely push him off the edge from where he was presumably standing.

John remembered something he had read,

"Is it really love if they can't even love themselves?"

And with that he had turned his brain fully on, allowing unwelcome thoughts into his head like the open window welcomed air into the flat without questioning its desire to enter.  
There was no way John would get any more sleep under these circumstances in which he found himself overthinking. To the tired man, this was not acceptable.

He moved his whole body to the left and nuzzled himself into the taller body of Sherlock Holmes. He heard a grunt escape Sherlock and felt his arm wrap around him.

John let the delicate chin of Sherlock resting on his head temporarily push out any negative thoughts he had about his possible guilty involvement in the death of Sherlock's happiness and willed himself to fall asleep.


	3. Blueberries

John was the first to wake up and make his way to the kitchen for a morning tea alone before a breakfast shared with Sherlock. On weekends the couple slept in for long hours or utilized their time in the bedroom to keep the romance alive. On weekdays, a recently retired John Watson was not yet accustomed to having nowhere to be in the morning.

After the ritual of morning tea, he would venture to the living room where he could read a newspaper or try his hand at a crossword. He also had a bunch of new word search books.

They had been a Christmas gift from Molly after she confused his interest in writing words for finding words.

By the time he was half way done his crossword puzzle, fourty minutes had passed since he had gotten out of bed. Sherlock would be joining him in the living room soon.

John found peace in his morning tea and crossword. The familiar walls of the flat hugged him awake.

John set his almost done puzzle aside devoting all his attention to his tea. The cup warmed his hands and the liquid warmed his inside.

With his puzzle book on the side table next to him, he watched his most challenging puzzle stumble out from the bedroom.

'Good morning sweetheart.'

A tired Sherlock walked to where John sat and planted a kiss on his head as he wrapped an arm around Johns shoulder, leaning over from a standing position for a quick morning embrace.

Sherlock retraced his steps, walking back from where he came, to flop into Johns chair.

In the mornings John nestled into Sherlocks chair so he could see when Sherlock exited the bedroom which left the man with curly hair to sit in what had come to be known as Johns chair.

The experience was nice but by the end of the day, the two men found peace in the fabric of their own chairs.

John remembers with ease the first time he found himself in the chair belonging to Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

'Uh. John'. A stunned Sherlock was hesitant to step further into the room and resorted to staring at the man sitting in the chair not belonging to him.

John was still quite new to the flat and was still under the impression he had a limp in his leg requiring a cane. Sherlock was under the impression that the newish man wasn't foreign enough to not be familiar with what chair was his and what chair was not.

John looked up to witness the frozen man.

'Yes?'

'Wh-what are you doing?'

'Im sitting.'

Even the simplest most obvious remarks could sound half smart coming from the mouth of John Watson.

'In my chair.'

After a couple more lines of whining coming from the detective, John was a good sport and moved from the chair clearly belonging to Sherlock Holmes and relocating to the chair across.

It was tedious work as he maneuvered the cane with him.

Once seated he entered a staring contest with the other man. It wasn't direct eye contact or intimidating but it was clear that both men were looking at each other.

John piped up.

'Is this alright? I'm not sitting in Mrs. Hudson's chair am I?'

'Mrs. Hudson? No. Why would I have a chair reserved for someone for which I have nothing to talk about that cant be said in a 5-second chit chat while standing?'

John looked around an expression of humour on his face.

'Well why are there two ch-'

'Clients.'

'Oh. Right. Ok.'

A long pause rang clear.

John flirted with an idea half sarcastically.

'And does me sitting here make this my chair then or is there a 3-year sitting minimum I'm unaware of?'

After another much shorter pause of conversation, the two boys laughed. First Sherlocks short burst of deep laughter followed by a smooth layering of Johns higher more enthusiastic chuckles.

Later that night after a little celebratory booze for Johns blog reaching 1000 views, they had entered a more philosophical conversation about what made a piece of furniture belong especially to one specific person.

Topics of the subject included: What happens when the person dies? Is it still their chair?, Could multiple people have the same special chair? and of course, if someone sat in another persons chair would the chairs feelings be damaged?

 

 

Sherlock remembers this night too and thinks about it as he stares at his now empty chair. The deep black, clean fabric staring sharply back at him.

The only man Sherlock could imagine sitting in his chair, other than himself, had now gotten up to go to the kitchen. He hadn't even noticed.

'Huh?'

'I said, what will it be this morning?' John was calling out from the kitchen turning the oven on.

Sherlock began tapping his hands against Johns chairs arm rests. What did he want for breakfast? It was a question he was faced with every morning but the sleepiness of the hour made it seem like a new question every time.

John exited the kitchen walking up behind the love of his life who was sitting facing away from the kitchen.

Sherlock felt Johns smaller chest and arms wrap itself around his shoulders and upper back and leaned into it.

'Hmm'

John kissed Sherlock's cheek.

'How about some french toast?'

Sherlock let his head fall back into Johns neck.

'Yes please.'

John left again leaving Sherlocks head to rest on the back of the chair as the smell of french toast started to enter his nose.

At the table, Sherlock was faced with the lovely work of his husband. One piece of french toast for himself and two for John. A maple syrup container sat in the middle.

He was pretty sure french toast was just bread dipped in eggs but everything John presented him with he viewed as a culinary feat.

'Blueberries?'

Sherlock grabbed a grand total of 2 blueberries from the container being offered to him and proceeded to eat his syrupless french toast.

The mornings domestic chit chats continued as John opened his mouth.

'So I was thinking,' hesitation as he swallowed his food creation. 'That maybe we could go visit Mycroft today. You know, with Rosie coming home tomorrow and College starting in September we'll be too busy to go for the rest of the month.'

Sherlock nodded.

'And you haven't really left the flat in weeks.'

Sherlock paused from the task of cutting the toast on his plate into small isosceles triangles and looked across to John.

A sweet smile was placed on Johns face but Sherlock saw through to what he viewed as disappointment.

'Ok'. He said. The nod he gave earlier apparently wasn't an adequate confirmation of Johns plan to visit Mycroft.

Sherlock stopped eating with 6 more triangles still on his plate and thanked John for breakfast with a kiss he planted on his hand.

He left the table and began preparing himself for a visit to the graveyard.


	4. Pre-Christmas Smoke

After ditching the sleeping gown and pajama bottoms for a more presentable, smart looking set of clothes consisting of a dress shirt and dark trousers, Sherlock was finally starting to look like Sherlock. 

The sight pleased John but the mess that was Sherlocks uncared for hair stood out even more now in sharp looking clothes than it had before in toothpaste stained pyjamas. John didn't want to push his luck or scare Sherlock away from the days activities by asking him to march into the bathroom to brush the disaster located on his head. 

After dressing himself and entering into the living room, Sherlock was welcomed by one of Johns smiles. He felt like a toddler being praised by its mum after getting themselves dressed for the first time. He should feel insulted but he accepts the glowing smile and mirrors it back. 

'Ready?' 

The two men are standing face to face, a respectable distance between them, in the comfort of the home they have built together. 

Sherlock wants to say something along the lines of 'of course why wouldn't I be?' 

Instead he refrains himself from his first instinct and says 'Yeah. I just need to get something quick.'

John watches Sherlock float over towards the fireplace mantle where a small metal box painted in gold colour sits. He opens it with his lengthy fingers, his nails perfectly rounded and a precious pink. The box when opened reveals a soft plush purple padding and resting in the boxes padding is a package of cigarettes. Sherlock removes one and places it in his coat pocket. 

'Its not Christmas'.

'I know'. Sherlock replies calmly.

'Special treat?' He insists, trying to win Johns approval. 

The war veterans tired eyes smile at the always-a-detective-at-heart's sad eyes.

'Its whatever you decide.'

Sherlock pats his pocket where the single cigarette rests.

'Ready.'

The car park where the car was kept was a calm 12 minute walk. 

After closing the flats door behind him Sherlock practically skipped out to the middle of the sidewalk to where his cute John stood. He enthusiastically placed his hand into Watsons hand and they began their walk together.

They walked like this, nothing being said, that was until Sherlock found a decent sized rock to kick. 

A couple of kicks of it only landing on his side of the sidewalk before Sherlock explained himself.

'I swear Im trying to kick it over to you.'

John smiled.

'Ball hog.'

'John your observation skills do amaze me on a regular basis but Im afraid you have mistaken this rock for a ball.'

Sherlock smirked finding his own attempt at humour rather funny.

'There it goes.'

A good kick sent the rock flying up ahead and on the walking path of John. 

John kicked it and it immediately went back to Sherlocks side.

'Ah. You're kidding me.'

Turning a corner around a brick building signalled to the couple that they had nearly reached their destination. 

John cleared his throat quietly and looked up towards Sherlock. He winced slightly at the bright sun peaking out right above the building beside them.

'Uhm.. Sherlock.'

Sherlock glanced over.

'Ya?' 

'Did you want to drive or did you want me to?'

John prided himself on his abilities when it came to preparing Sherlock for certain situations. He always made sure he knew who was expected to drive in times of more pressure situations to reduce the likeliness of Sherlock getting into a panic. John knew Sherlock wasnt affected by things like visiting graveyards as most people were but he didn't want to downplay his husbands right to emotions when they arose.

Sherlock played Johns sweet concern off with a toothy smile. Again, not something most other people would be able to pull off at a time like this.

'No I can drive.'

The words exited through his smile. 

John switched his hands as they walked. He removed his right hand from Sherlocks and quickly filled the space with his left hand. His right hand lovingly slid up sherlocks arm, to where it bent at the elbow, and wrapped itself around the skinny arm. They were now walking with linked arms instead of intertwined hands. As John hugged the mans arm tight he momentarily rested his head on his partner. He couldn't quite reach Sherlocks shoulder.

'Ok'.

When they got to the car, John removed the keys from his pocket and gave them to Sherlock. In the lighting of the car park, Sherlocks uncombed hair was again visible. John had forgotten about it on the short walk, the suns rays had distracted his eyes. 

He smiled at the mess. 

His smile received questioning from Sherlock.

'What?'

'Nothing.'

Johns smile grew as he disappeared into the car.


End file.
